


Plausible Deniability

by wargoddess



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Mage!Cullen, PWP, templar!Carver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:09:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1188123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen's a mage of the Kirkwall Circle, and Carver's the Templar ordered to escort him to Starkhaven against his will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plausible Deniability

**Author's Note:**

> Set near the end of DA2, post Thrask's abortive rebellion, with diplo!friend!Hawke in the background. No actual rape in the story, note -- just a mention of it happening in the Gallows and possible elsewhere.

     It's not what he intends, of course.  The bloke's a mage, and a snooty sort of mage at that.  He reminds Carver of Garrett at first -- dignified, diplomatic, a little distant, slow to smile.  Which is weird, plus also annoying.

     But he's sodding gorgeous, that's the thing.  Tall and blond and _stalwart_ , if someone can look stalwart, though he also looks sort of tired all the time, too.  Maybe he's one of the ones who fight the demons by sleeping only when he has to.  Or maybe he stays up late reading, though Meredith's put another curfew in place and the mages are supposed to have lights out at ten.  (Bloody stupid to put a lights-out curfew on people who can conjure a wisp under the covers.  Bethany and he used to do that, and stay up late reading tales and whispering of secrets.  It's not right to treat grown men like children, either, but he's just a Knight Lieutenant, it's not his place to say.)  Maybe the mage lies awake thinking; he seems the thinky type.  Or maybe, and Carver doesn't like thinking about this, but he's seen the evidence of it even if other Templars have learned to not mention what's happening in front of him, because he's got no problem meeting anyone on the lower levels for a little _talk_ with his fists and lately they know his brother's a mage so they whisper behind his back that maybe he's a mage sympathizer because of it, which is fucking stupid because Templars are _supposed to_ sympathize with mages, it's their bloody _job_ , and if anyone it's Bethy who he thinks about and not Garrett when he hears that some apprentice has killed herself and left a note saying _Better the Void than Alrik_ , or some blood mage boy was found crying and bruised in the baths --

     So maybe somebody's keeping this mage busy, nights. Carver doesn't intend to worry about it -- can't think about some things or it'll drive you starkers -- but he does, and he lingers in the corridor near the mage's room on different nights of different weeks.  Just spot-checking, he tells himself.  He's an officer now -- just a Knight Lieutenant, but still -- and, well, it's his job.  He makes sure to watch all the mages and not just _him_.  But he watches _him_ , too.

     And the mage notices, maybe because he catches Carver looking at him a few times, or maybe because all mages notice all Templars as a survival tactic.  He comes out of his cell sometimes, or goes into it, and pauses on the threshold to glance at Carver, his expression unreadable.  Carver can never bear that gaze.  He always looks away.

     A senior enchanter, the rosters say.  Name of Cullen.  From Fereldan too, sent to Kirkwall after the mages there messed up their Circle with demons and such.  He _looks_ Ferelden, all legs and shoulders, skin all over sun, even though rumor has it he's never been outside a Circle in his life --

     Maker, Carver shouldn't _know_ that about him.

     Maker, he's got it bad.

     He goes to the Rose with the fellows and asks for Adriano, not because Adriano reminds him of anyone but because Adriano's got a demon cock and Andraste's tongue and in the soft perfumed depths of Adriano's bed Carver can just forget for awhile.  But then even as he's doing the nightwatch rounds with his arse sore and his nipples still tingling, he'll see Cullen trot down the stairs looking almost naked in shirt and trou, with a dressing gown tossed over one arm 'cause he's on his way to the baths, and Carver cannot help but watch the ease of his movements and -- and -- _fuck_ , it just isn't right.

     Because Carver's a Templar.  And the bloke's a mage, but... but if he was an _apostate_ , Carver knows bloody well he wouldn't hesitate.  He'd _talk_ to the fellow, and sound him out, and maybe... if Cullen wanted, maybe... maybe.

     But this is the Gallows.  Cullen can't say no, not here, not really.  And Carver is _Carver_ , for fuck's sake, named for _Maurevar_ ; he has sworn on his father's soul to honor that name.

     So he keeps going to Adriano, and making close friends with his hand and the massage liniment, and if he moans a mage's name into the pillows while his fingers work, well.  At least he can still live with himself.

     Until:

     "It is not the sort of mission I would choose for you," Meredith says, on the day she has him into her office.  He stands at attention before her desk, eyes fixed on the spot just above her shoulder as is proper, and he tries not to think, _Bloody Void, what now_.  Because she might see that in him somehow, and his life's hard enough with the Maker-damned apostate Champion as his brother.

     And as if she's reading his mind, she gets to her feet and paces over to the window, hands clasped behind her back, saying, "You realize, of course, that I would have promoted you to Knight Captain by now, if not for your brother."

     Of fucking course.  "Yes, Ser," he says.

     "You are more tolerant of mages' ideosyncracies than I would like," she continues, "but I have seen that you do not hesitate when a mage fails the Harrowing.  I have seen you face down demons and blood mages without faltering.  You are loyal, unlike Thrask and his ilk.  And," she sighs, "I have seen that you are honorable.  That is a quality sadly lacking in the ranks these days."

     _Because you recruit for thugs wanting someone to shit on, or thieves wanting a finger in the lyrium trade, not people who actually mean to do some sodding good._

     He knows better than to say this, of course.  Learned something from Garrett's mealymouthed diplomacy, after all.

     So she lays out the mission.  He's to escort a mage up north to Starkhaven, where they're trying to restart their Circle after the disastrous fire that set a gaggle of them loose and on the path to blood magic.  "I mislike sending any of our mages there," she says, scowling.  "They want them because the usurper of Starkhaven's throne fears an attack by his cousin, Prince Sebastian.  He sees the Circle as a _military asset_ , and not a sacred obligation, and the Knight Commander there is weak enough to cater to him."  She shakes her head and sighs.  "But I must at least appear to comply, in the interests of diplomacy, and so I am sending one Senior Enchanter.  They cannot complain of his rank, and he is a force mage of considerable skill.  Fortitude as well; Greagoir spoke highly of him."

     Wait.  Greagoir's the Knight Commander in Fereldan.

     "In fact," Meredith sighs, oblivious to Carver's tension, "Greagoir will likely be displeased with me, after this.  Cullen apparently _asked_ to come to Kirkwall, after the events in Kinloch.  He has not asked to go to Starkhaven.  But a mage's whims are trivial compared to the balance of power between nations."

     Oh, Maker, no.

     She turns to Carver and inclines her head.  "You are to see him safely ensconced there, Knight Lieutenant.  Or, should the mage succumb to sin along the way, send him to the Maker as you see fit, and I'll make my apologies to Starkhaven.  Politics will be satisfied, either way."

#

     It's an extra bit of ugly that no one tells the mage before Carver goes to fetch him.  Carver's known for a week and had time to pack properly, let Mother and Garrett know he'll be away, give the little potted violet in his quarters to Ruvena to take care of.  But when Carver stands in the mage's cell -- such a small space, but Cullen keeps it Templar-neat -- and explains that it's time to leave, Carver sees the surprise and dismay on the man's face and realizes what's happened.

     Orsino knew about this.  Why didn't he tell Cullen, the wretch?  Because Orsino is too busy these days trying to figure out ways to undermine and rally support against Meredith, and a little thing like _his bloody job_ doesn't merit his attention anymore.

     "I'm sorry," Carver says, while the mage sits there digesting that he must again leave behind everything he knows, this time against his will.  Which would make it a little like the Blight for him, yeah, and leaving Lothering?  _But leaving Lothering sodding sucked_.  Yeah.  "I can, uh, I'll ask the Knight Commander if we can delay for a day, if you want to make your farewells -- "

     "No, that won't be necessary."  The mage takes a deep breath and stands, decisive.  "I can but do the Maker's will."

     Carver shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable.  "Can't see the Maker's got much to do with this," he says, thinking _unless His name's fucking Orsino, and He's incompetent_.

     But Senior Enchanter Cullen only smiles in his weary, sad way.  "The Maker's hand is in all things, Knight Lieutenant," he says, gently.  "That is what made you a Templar and me a mage, and that is what will take me to my ultimate fate."  He pauses, and his smile widens a little, more genuinely.  "With your assistance.  Thank you for escorting me.  A moment while I gather my things."

     So they set out.

     It's easy traveling on a busy road, and really, Carver's mostly there so nobody will harass Cullen for going about in robes and carrying his staff.  'Course, nobody harasses Cullen for that anyway, same as nobody ever harassed Garrett for dressing the same way -- because with darkspawn and Tal Vashoth and dragons about, nobody really worries about mages.  It's Carver who gets the eye, in fact.  He notices the way a carter tenses up when Carver glances at his cargo, and realizes the man fears he'll confiscate it.  He notices the way a farmer elbows his daughter, who's busy hoeing, and sends her indoors when Carver passes on the road.  The girl's pretty, but not really Carver's type.  He nods to the farmer, and the man glowers back at him, stonefaced.

     He's still thinking about it that evening, when they stop for the night in a roadside inn that probably doesn't have bedbugs, and take a room.  The inn doesn't have doubles, unfortunately, so Carver has to argue with the innkeeper for a bedroll; Andraste's sake, it's like the man doesn't get that Templars have to stay with their mages.  Then the innkeeper throws up his hands and says, "You're just going to have him anyway, everyone knows what you Templars do to those poor mages, so just do it in the bed where I can change the sheets and don't mess up a perfectly good bedroll!"

     Carver stares at the man, too shocked to curse him as he should.  And Cullen -- fuck, Cullen's _right there_ hearing all this, and it's just so bloody _wrong_.  What's more wrong is that Cullen doesn't protest.  Doesn't react.  Just stands there, calm as always, patient, enduring.  Like it's nothing that half the inn's common room thinks Carver's going to take him upstairs and _rape_ him.

     Oh, no fucking _way_.

     Carver's got the innkeeper's shirt in his fist and has dragged the fellow halfway across the bar, before he thinks about it.  "Now, you listen to me, you Blighted _waste_ ," and his voice is a snarl.  "That's not how it works -- and if it was, I don't exactly see you calling a constable or lifting a fist to _stop_ me, so keep your moralizing to yourself!  Give me the sodding bedroll before I -- "

     "Knight Lieutenant," says Cullen.  It's quiet, but it's enough.  A reminder.  Carver bites off his fury, lets the innkeeper go -- man looks like he needs to change his shorts anyway, bloody coward -- and takes a breath to compose himself.

     The innkeeper gives Carver a bedroll, for a ten-silver extra fee that Carver slaps down with a tight-lipped glare.  He turns, and although there are maybe twenty other people in the inn's common room, none of them look at him.  They already think he's a rapist, and now they've seen that he's a violent thug, too.

     _Fuck them all_.  Carver gestures curtly to Cullen and heads upstairs, not even looking to see whether the mage follows.

     In the room it's quiet, and after a few minutes' angry pacing he's able to calm down.  During this period, Cullen sets their packs on the couch, and goes to the door to speak to a girl who comes to ask after their meals.  Carver barely pays attention to this, but he hears the clink of coins and realizes Cullen has bribed the girl to not spit in or otherwise foul their food, after Carver's mistreatment of the innkeeper.  That makes things worse, sort of, because it's something Carver should've thought of.  He's supposed to take care of his mage, and he's doing a shit job.

     He strips off his armor and stacks it carelessly on the couch and throws down the bedroll -- which is threadbare and smells like mildew and old people, why the fuck was the man even worried about it -- and flings himself down on it with one arm over his eyes.  The bedroll's so thin it feels like he's lying on the bare floor.  Fuck, fuck, fucking _fuck_.

     The girl brings up bowls of stew and a basket of bread and cheese.  The smell of it is enough to rouse Carver from his funk, so he looks around to find that the mage has moved to sit down beside him, and laid the food out between them.  Cullen's taken off the robe, too, and his boots, and there's something about the sight of him there, calm and calming, relaxed in his shirt and trousers and strangely intimate in his socked feet, that makes Carver feel all over the callow boy having a tantrum. 

     So he sits up, leaning against the bed, and sighs.  "Sorry."

     Cullen looks amused.  "For defending my honor?"

     Carver's face heats.  "No, for -- "  He can't articulate it.  It's ridiculous anyway, with Cullen here all cool and confident and bloody perfect as he is.  "For you _hearing_ that.  For, for them thinking -- "  He gestures awkwardly, in lieu of words.

     At this, Cullen sobers, sighing.  "You shouldn't let idle talk trouble you, Knight Lieutenant -- "

     "Carver."  He blurts it, then feels even more the clod.  But if they're going to talk about, about this, then he doesn't want to hear his bloody title every other minute.

     The mage inclines his head.  "...Cullen."

     That's better.  "And it's _not_ idle talk," Carver says.  "It's an insult.  They don't even know us, and this is what they think of us!"

     "What?"

     "That I'm -- some kind of -- "  He can't say it.  Can't even think it.  "And that _you_ , that you're helpless or something, weak or, or, I don't know."

     " _Are_ you some kind of...?"  Cullen lets the question trail away delicately.

     "Fuck's sake, no!  I'd never!"

     "And if you were, if you chose to harm me, if you 'had me', that would not make me weak or helpless."  Carver flinches, but Cullen is smiling in his gentle way.  "You survived Ostagar, the rumor has it.  Did living through betrayal and violence make you weak?"

     Carver can only stare at him for a moment, his blood chilling.  Has someone done this to Cullen?  Has Carver, in his self-absorption, reminded Cullen of horrors past?  "No," he says.

     "Yet others would call you deserter and coward for surviving.  For enduring what would break them."  Cullen shrugs and sits forward to pick up a piece of cheese.  "They don't know you.  _You_ know you.  Their words are meaningless."

     He eats while Carver sits there, thrown again by the words.  But they're true, aren't they?  Carver wouldn't give two fucks if they thought anything else of him.  He's spent years being called doglord, dogturd, stinking refugee, farmboy clod, worse, and none of it's really troubled him.  Why does this?

     Because... because.  "It's not right," he says, finally.  "That we're all thought so low because of what a few do."

     He's not imagining it when Cullen's smile fades.  "Agreed," he says, softly.  And belatedly Carver remembers he's a mage; for fuck's sake, he knows far better than Carver what it is to be judged -- and disenfranchised, and disowned, and imprisoned -- for others' wrongs. 

     "But such things are human nature, with the encouragement of our society," Cullen continues, and Carver blinks out of angst.  "Those of us on the receiving end of others' animus can but endure, and maintain our own principles as best we may, regardless.  This is so for any man."

     Carver nods slowly, thinking of Maurevar Carver again.

     They eat, and it's filling, and Carver's already yawning when he gets up to take their leavings to the door for the girl to pick up.  As he comes back, scratching himself idly and sighing over the stiffness he'll have in the morning from this useless, smelly bedroll, Cullen climbs into the bed.  It's a big bed, for whatever good that does one man.  And Cullen's sticking to one side of the bed for some reason, watching Carver thoughtfully.

     "The bed is large enough to share," the mage says, at last.

     Carver stops, frowning.  "But -- "  He stops, confused and -- and.  What?

     Cullen shifts a little, perhaps uncomfortably.  "You will do neither of us good, if you aren't well-rested."

     Well, yeah.  But.  "We were just talking about people thinking we're..."

     "And we concluded, I believe," says Cullen, "that _their thoughts_ are less important than what we know of ourselves."

     "Oh.  Uh.  Yeah."  And he has no intention of ravishing Cullen.  'Course, he'll never get to be _ravished by_ Cullen, either, no matter how much he might want it, and lying beside him all night... Maker.  His skin tingles with craving at the thought.  His guts clench in despair that it will never be.

     He's silent so long that Cullen holds up a conciliatory hand.  "My apologies.  This discomfits you."

     "N-no."  He blurts it.  Can't think.  "I want to sleep with you."  Oh, fuck.  "I mean -- "

     Cullen smiles, and oh, it's beautiful.  He's not even laughing at Carver, just charmed, and maybe relaxing a little himself.  "I understand."

     Carver groans and rubs at his shoulder.  A muscle there twinges dully.  "This is bloody awkward."

     Cullen shrugs, completely at ease; Carver envies him so much.  "The relationship between Templar and mage tends to be.  We are meant to rely upon each other, care for one another -- yet you and I are virtual strangers.  There is nothing to be done for it but proceed, and adapt."

     True enough.  Carver takes a deep breath and approaches the bed, trying not to come over shy.  He's a Templar, for Andraste's sake; he's supposed to be strong.  "Well, uh, if you really don't mind, then..."  He folds the sheets back on his side of the bed and sits down on its edge, gingerly.  He doesn't look at Cullen, but he can feel Cullen's eyes on him.

     "Does your shoulder trouble you?"

     "What?"

     Cullen reaches over and touches him.  Bloody _fuck_.  Carver nearly jumps out of his skin.  But it's just a touch, just a single fingertip drawing a line along the tendon between his shoulderblade and neck.  "You were rubbing this, earlier, as if it pained you.  When you grabbed the innkeeper..."

     Oh.  Right.  "Guess I pulled something.  Didn't exactly brace for it like I should've."    

     Cullen flips the sheets back and gets up, and Carver nearly jumps off the bed this time.  "Wh -- "

     "Please, be at ease," Cullen says, with a calming little wave back at him.  "I have something that may help you, is all."

     "I'll be fine," Carver says, blinking, but the mage is already rummaging through his satchel.

     Well, then.  Carver takes the opportunity to lie down and try to get comfortable while Cullen's not there to be jostled by his weight.  And then, once he's comfortable, on his belly with his head turned away, he frets.  What if he can't sleep?  He certainly doesn't feel like it right now, knowing soon Cullen will be right there beside him, so untouchable, fucking perfect, so calm and cool, fucking _inappropriate_.  But what if there's bedbugs and he has to scratch?  Cullen comes back; the bed dips with his weight.  Maker, he's solid for a mage.  What if Carver tosses in his sleep, and Cullen turns, and they break the bed between them?  Then he'll have to deal with that bastard innkeep again.

     "Carver?"

     What if he _farts_?  Oh, demons take him right bloody now if --

     "Knight Lieutenant."

     Carver jumps, and pushes himself up on his elbows.  "I thought you weren't going to call me -- right, woolgathering, sorry."

     Cullen sits primly on his knees, but there's something in his hands that Carver recognizes:  a plain tin pot, which holds the massage liniment Templars are given.  He blinks at the mage.  "What, for my shoulder?  I told you, it's fine."

     "Perhaps.  If you will remove your shirt, I can examine you and be sure."

     Carver shakes his head, but complies, tossing the shirt over by his armor.  "I do worse every other time I spar, you know."

     "And you shouldn't."  Cullen's voice is warm, relaxing.  "A good stretching before you begin would prevent that.  If you would lie down?"

     So Carver does this too, propping his head on his folded arms and trying not to flinch when Cullen touches him again, with both hands this time, just a slow slide and probe around the affected area.  It _is_ pretty sore.  "This will cramp by morning if nothing is done."

     Carver shrugs and does flinch this time as the shoulder twinges.  "If you're a healer, I'll abide a bit of magic."  Meredith makes sure mages know they'll be punished if they use magic on Templars without their express permission.  And there are those of Carver's fellows who won't tolerate it -- but Carver remembers Bethany's soft hands, and misses them, and he takes healing whenever he can get it in her honor.

     "I'll not waste magic on such a minor injury."  Cullen's hands go away.  There's a faint metallic sound, and then the faint minty smell of the liniment wafts around them.  "But the muscle must be stretched, and the tension eased, to prevent the cramp.  This may be uncomfortable; forgive me in advance."

     Then his hands, heavy and slippery with liniment and shockingly warm, land on Carver's shoulders.  And --

     Oh.  Ohhhh, he's strong.  He grips and tugs at Carver's skin, at the muscle underneath, and it hurts a little while he's massaging the injured tendon but he's gentler with that, and maybe he's not using any magic but it definitely feels better.  Except...  Except it's _Cullen_ , and he's touching Carver's _bare skin_ , and Carver's had a thousand million fantasies that start just like this and end with Cullen fucking him into the mattress.

     Oh, Maker.  Cullen letting his thumbs slide down Carver's spine, slow and pressing in a little.  Cullen letting those fingers keep going, down into the cleft of his arse, teasing and tingling with liniment.  Cullen straddling him, his weight bearing Carver down, one hand resting on his shoulder and holding him in place while the other positions his cock --

     "Hn," Cullen says, stopping, and Carver jumps a little.  "You are very tense of a sudden -- more than when I began.  Does this trouble you?"

     "Uh, no," Carver lies, because _of course_ he's troubled by the giant, aching erection that's now jabbing him in the stomach.  "I'm... I'm all right.  Thanks.  Just, uh, that's fine, don't worry about it."

     Cullen sighs.  "I cannot leave you like this, Carver."  His hands shift, moving again, this time sliding slowly down Carver's back.  His thumbs aren't following Carver's spine; that's the only reason Carver doesn't moan aloud at this echo of his fantasy.  As it is, he stiffens up a little more, in multiple ways.

     Cullen _tsks_ a little as he works.  "It is the duty of mages to work with Templars," he says, and his voice is gentle, velvet, hypnotic.  "You are our helpmeets, our protectors.  If you're suffering and I do nothing, what manner of man am I?  No righteous one, surely."

     As he says this, his thumbs have pressed into the divots at the small of Carver's back.  The rest of his fingers wrap around Carver's hips, and it's impossible for Carver not to think of those hands tightening, lifting him, holding him in place while Cullen slides into him, deep and thick, making Carver cry out while Cullen... talks about _righteousness_.  Yeah.  Oh, sodding Void.

     Cullen shifts to get comfortable as he works, and takes his hands away for a moment.  Carver hears him rolling up his sleeves, then wetting his hands with more liniment.  "May I have your permission to touch you further?"

     Carver wants to say no.  It -- Maker, he's so hard he's light-headed.  If only Cullen would touch him... well.  He can't have that.  But Cullen's offering _something_.  Isn't that better than nothing?

     So he sort of croaks, "Y-yeah."

     Cullen's hands return to where they were.  And then. They slide down, just a little.  Just up the rise that is Carver's ass, not quite covering his cheeks.  A warning.  "If this makes you uncomfortable, you have but to say enough, Carver."

     Is it uncomfortable to be this bloody hard?  "Right."  He swallows, and hopes the sound isn't audible.  "Sure it'll be fine."

     "Good."

     It's Carver's imagination, maybe, that this one word sounds so satisfied.  Maybe.

     Then Cullen's hands are on the curves of his ass, gripping hard and kneading, and sweet fucking Maker what was Carver _thinking_.  It's magnificent.  And even when Cullen moves on, working methodically down his legs, drawing fingertips along the tendons of his calves, pressing thumbs into the arches of his feet, it's almost relaxing.  _Relaxing_ because Cullen's hands are smooth and strong and steady, and it feels sodding good.  _Almost_ because Carver can hear Cullen breathing harder, uttering little grunts of effort as he puts his back into it; he can feel Cullen bearing down on him with almost his full weight, because Carver's apparently a challenge.  It's almost impossible for Carver to hear those grunts and not think of sex; impossible to feel that weight and those touches and not crave his fingers between Carver's legs, and maybe more than fingers.  Impossible to hear those soft breaths and not imagine himself taking Cullen's cock into his mouth, suckling while he breathes and shifts and --   It's fucking torture.

     And it gets worse when Cullen sits back, exhaling a little and wetting his hands again, and says, "Better, though not ideal.  Turn over, now, please."

     Oh, shit.  He tries frantically to think of something to say.  "I, uh, I'm fine with this.  All relaxed now, lots better."

     "Then you will be more relaxed when we finish."  Is Cullen amused?  Is he smiling?  "Come, now, Carver.  You have nothing I have not seen before."

     Maker, Andraste, that elven bloke whose story the Chantry erased, _somebody_ save him.  "I... I can't."

     Cullen utters a little sigh.  "If you would rather not continue, I shall not press."

     But he sounds so _disappointed_.  Carver bites his lips, squirms -- which doesn't help his dick at all -- and says, "P-promise you won't laugh."

     "That I swear."  Cullen's so grave, Carver knows he means it.  "I will do nothing that troubles you, Carver.  Not ever."

     Well.  Carver takes a deep breath, then sighs and rolls over onto his back.  His cock slaps against his belly as he settles; it sounds as loud as hands clapping.  He can't meet Cullen's eyes, and looks away so the mage won't see him blushing.

     "Ah.  Small wonder you're so tense."  Cullen's voice was wry.  " _Not_ small, rather."  Carver groans in humiliation -- then freezes, his breath catching in his throat, as Cullen draws an oiled fingertip along the underline of his cock.  "We mages are taught to confront the things that trouble us.  You Templars, however, _deny_ temptation.  I am not certain this is healthy."

     Carver swallows.  Sweet Maker, that _finger_.  Is Cullen asking him a quetion?  Should he answer?  He can't think of anything to say.  He can't think of anything but that slow, mint-tingling finger.  But then Cullen _stops_ , and Carver isn't sure what to feel.  Fury and frustration?  Relief and embarrassment?  Cullen moves his hands to Carver's chest and resumes the massage, pressing thumbs in to knead the join of shoulder to pectoral, and Carver is left in a fluster.

     "You hold it in," Cullen continues, working methodically down his arms, back up and over his chest.  "You pretend that you feel nothing, when you _do_.  You are as much flesh and blood as anyone."  His thumbs abruptly circle Carver's nipples, then press.  Carver gasps, arching a little, then he is ashamed that he's done so.  Cullen sighs.  "And in the meantime, with your needs unmet, you cannot help but spend yourself elsewhere, in unsafe places and unwholesome ways."

     Fuck.  Fuck, he can't think.  It's _like_ sex but it's _not_ sex and he _wants_ sex and this is _some_ sex and Cullen's a sodding _mage_ and he can't, he can't, he can't.  Swallowing hard, Carver attempts to steer the conversation elsewhere.  "In-into duty," he says.  Yes, duty.  "Protecting the Circles.  That's _important_."

     "We are not in a Circle right now, Carver."  And oh Maker, Cullen has bent down to murmur this right into Carver's ear.  "Soon I must bend and twist myself to fit other Templars' demands, fit into other mages' spaces.  But for now, this in-between place and time... Here alone, I may be myself."

     Startled, Carver turns to him, and Cullen sits up.  His eyes are as calming as ever, his gaze steady, reassuring -- but maybe there's something more to that gaze.  Maybe Cullen's face is a little flushed too, from more than exertion?  Maybe Cullen's licking his lips a little, and there's something in his expression that's not so calm, for once.

     And as Carver stares back, Cullen smiles and coaxes one of Carver's legs up, trailing slow fingers up the hamstring, back toward Carver's body.  "I have seen you watching me," Cullen says.

     Carver's face catches fire.  Shit, shit, shit.  He looks away and mumbles something.  "I... making sure you, I was just, um, seeing the mages were okay."  Which barely even makes sense.

     Cullen lets out a soft breath that might be a laugh, but it is gentle.  "I'm grateful, actually.  I have felt safer for your attention.  You aren't like the others, who watch and plot, and covet.  You watch, and perhaps wish, but in the end, you are honorable."

     His fingers play along the curve of Carver's ass where it rests against the sheets.  Carver's breath catches, and he doesn't know why.

     "It is my duty to acknowledge such vigilance."

     Carver's leg is hooked over Cullen's upper arm.  Cullen leans forward slowly, pushing Carver up, opening him wide.  One finger, oiled and sure, grazes just beneath Carver's balls and Carver shuts his eyes tight against a groan.

     "It is my duty to aid you, where I can."

     Now that finger moves down, circling.  And now Carver's breathing so hard, trying not to lift his hips against Cullen's hand, trying not to _want_.  Then the finger presses in, slowly --

     "I cannot leave you in need, my Templar."

     And the finger curls, pressing and stroking just so.  Carver bucks in spite of himself, clutching the sheets for dear life, clenching his teeth so he won't fucking yell. Cullen puts a steadying hand on him -- on his _cock_ , for fuck's sake -- and gentles him with one soothing stroke.

     "Too much tension," Cullen says, shaking his head and _tsk_ -ing a little; Carver feels the brush of his hair against his calf.  "Lie still, now.  Let me take care of you."

     "Oh, _fuck_ ," Carver breathes, but he can't bring himself to say _stop_ because it feels too sodding good.  Because now Cullen's got two fingers in him, stroking, pressing, massaging him inside, and now Cullen's other hand is working a slow rhythm on his cock, with a subtle emphasis on the upstroke.  _Milking_ him, so gently that it _could_ be therapeutic.  It _might_ not be what it feels like, maybe, maybe it's not wrong to do this, and maybe it just _happens_ to feel so incredibly good...

     Cullen pauses in his stroking, thumb snaking down to encircle Carver's balls, rolling them up and back again -- but the fingers he's got inside Carver don't stop their gentle rhythmic massage.  Carver's made knots of the sheets with his fists.  There's a brush here and there against the skin of his chest, warm, wet; when it finds and lingers on one nipple, and he _hears_ Cullen licking --

     _If I don't cry out it's not sex,_ he thinks, wildly.  _If I don't moan, it's not sex.  If I don't touch **him**_ _, it's not_ \--

     "You are trembling," Cullen says, voice low and heavy  against his skin.  Carver feels the tickle of his breath, the brush of his beard.  "I mean to ease you, Carver, not trouble you more.  How may I do that?"

     "F -- "  Carver bites off the word, shakes his head desperately.  _Don't say it, don't say anything_.

     But he wants to say:  _Fuck me, **please**_ _fuck me._

     Cullen sighs and leans against him again, pressing Carver's leg back further so he can slide in a third finger, and oh it's perfect, oh it's just like, oh how Carver fucking _wants_ whatever this... isn't.

     "I have watched you in my turn," Cullen says, and Carver's eyes fly open.  But Cullen lowers his gaze demurely, even as he's fucking Carver with his fingers.  "I have... wished to be... other than a Circle Mage, so that you might... well.  I have _thought_."

     Oh, fuck.  Oh, fuck.  Oh, fuck.  And then Cullen looks at him, and it's _there_ , hunger and wanting and certainty and intent, and Carver shakes harder in response to all of it.

     "How shall I ease you?"  Cullen asks.  "Tell me what you want of me."

     And Carver's done.  He's just... done.  Never had a chance, really.

     But he can't say it.  Can't ask for something that he's not _supposed to_ want.  Can't reach for someone he's not supposed to touch.

     He can swallow, though, and --  and keep looking at Cullen, pleading without words as he lifts his other leg.  He can hook it 'round Cullen's side, pressing his heel into Cullen's ass in blatant suggestion.  He can lift his hips, and nudge upward, and hope -- and be rewarded by the feel of heat and hardness trapped behind the laces of Cullen's trousers.

     Cullen inhales, just a little.  Then he licks his lips and pulls his fingers out of Carver -- Carver moans, despite himself.  Then Carver sees him fumble, hears the flap of loosened laces and the rustle of shifted clothing.  With his other hand, Cullen reaches for the liniment again, and draws the container under Carver's legs, out of sight.

     "I _shall_ do my duty by you, Carver," the mage breathes.  Then -- oh -- he's pressing against Carver, into him, and Carver lets out a little whimper of relief and desperation as he feels Cullen settle deep.

     Then it's perfect.  It's amazing.  Then _Cullen's fucking him_ in steady strokes that start gentle and get rougher as Carver writhes and begs with his body and lets Cullen know that he needs a good hard ride, until it's everything Carver could want.  Cullen's fingers on one hip, tight, holding him still for Cullen's cock.  Cullen's other hand, still milking him, and Carver wants to beg him to stop so it'll last longer but he's also kind of losing it and _he cannot let go of the sheets or it'll be wrong_ which makes no bloody sense but it's the only plausible deniability he's got.  He's probably moaning, and he is blurting things like, "Oh, fuck, oh yes, oh Maker, please more," even though he knows he shouldn't.  But it just feels so unbearably good.

     Then Cullen's arching over him, and Cullen's hips are churning hard, and Carver thinks he's going to lose his mind if he doesn't shout, but then Cullen's mouth comes down on his like the hand of the Maker and it's

     a kiss

     Oh, Maker, a kiss

     and it's

     everything

     he's ever

    

     wanted.

     When he shouts it's into Cullen's mouth, and when he comes it's into Cullen's hand, and when he loses his sodding mind it's Cullen who's there to catch him, and ease him back to sanity, and carry them both home safe.

     Then he's done.  There's nothing left of him.  He lies panting, helpless, as Cullen slides out of him -- he utters a little whimper at the loss -- and gets up to fetch a cloth.  And as Cullen wipes him clean, and Carver sags toward sleep, Cullen says, softly, "Now we have done right by each other."

#

     He doesn't know what to think the next morning, when he wakes up in Cullen's arms.  He's shy about it when Cullen wakes too, and murmurs that he needs to check Carver to make certain the shoulder injury is better, and turns Carver onto his belly to accomplish this task.  It doesn't take much for Carver to get hard again beneath Cullen's gentle examination, or for Carver to lift his hips and hope when Cullen presses against his backside, and it takes nothing at all after that for Cullen to pin him down and fuck him for what feels like hours.

     But it's not hours, and so Carver gets up when they're done and says, hating himself for every word, that they should get ready to go.  Cullen doesn't protest, or even look unhappy.  They make the bed, Carver blushing as he realizes the innkeeper's going to find his spend all over the sheets in spite of everything; Cullen nudges him in a silent reminder that it doesn't bloody matter what the innkeeper thinks.  So then Carver armors up, and they hit the road back towards Starkhaven.

     They stop at another inn for the night, and Carver again asks for a bedroll because the room's got only one bed, and again the bedroll goes unused because Cullen invites Carver to his bed and Carver lies still and trembles beside him until Cullen exhales and walks fingers down his spine and murmurs in his ear, "You seem tense, my Templar."

     It's so much better than the Rose.  It's so much better than his fantasies.

     And that's what it becomes, from then on.  They travel by day and fuck by night, and neither of them says a word to directly acknowledge what they're doing.  But sometimes Carver shakes afterward too, thinking of what will happen when they reach Starkhaven and he loses what little he's got of Cullen, and how he'll have to stand there and watch those gates close and never see the mage again.  Cullen sighs and strokes him until he relaxes, and murmurs into his hair, "I know."  Which shouldn't help at all, but it does.

     They're three days out from Starkhaven when Carver finally can't take it anymore.  "I could let you go," he suggests.  It's not really an offer.  He's not really saying Cullen's free.  He's just speculating out loud, right?  They're camping this time, no inn nearby, nothing to call him a traitor but the fire.  "M-my father... a Templar let him go.  He said... he said _Rule is not served by caging the best of us_.  That's why my brother's still free, right?"

     But Cullen shakes his head.  "I have lived in a Circle my whole life," he says.  "I am loyal to the Chantry, even if their dictates are often... trying.  And even if I am not _wholly_ obedient."  He looks at Carver then, long and meaningfully, and Carver wants to weep for reasons he cannot articulate.  "I will do my duty."

     Carver can't even beg him to reconsider.  Because, well.  That's why he loves Cullen.  Which means that's how it's got to go.

     But the next night they reach a millhouse, and everyone there's in a tizzy, and they look at Cullen and Carver like his breastplate and Cullen's robes mean something.  When Carver goes to the barkeep to ask for a room, the barman says _no_ , amazingly.  "I don't want my property destroyed," he says, narrowing his eyes at them.  "Not when you decide to kill that one, or when that one fights back."

     "What the Void are you talking about?" Carver asks. 

     The barkeep, looking incredulous that they don't _know_ , tells them what's happened back in Kirkwall.  The Chantry blowing up.  Anders.  _Garrett_.  The Circle annulled, fighting back.  Meredith corrupted.

     Meredith dead.  All the Circles in rebellion.  War a-brewing.

     He looks at Cullen, and Cullen stares back, and horror isn't enough of a word for what he's feeling or what's in Cullen's face. 

     Then Carver sees that people in the room are fingering knives and keeping shields nearby, and his every sense pings that this isn't safe, that he's got a duty even if the world's suddenly come apart beneath him.  They leave, and no one follows.  That's a blessing.

     "I can't take you to Starkhaven," Carver says.  They've found an abandoned barn to hole up in; nothing but the owls and moldy hay to witness their conspiracy.  "And I can't take you back to Kirkwall.  Not -- not to the Circle, anyway."

     Cullen nods slowly.  He looks even more troubled by all of this than Carver feels.  "It is... no longer safe for us to travel as Templar and mage, I think," he says.

     That's the damned truth.  "I'll sell my armor in the next town, buy us some civvies."  And then, because it has to be said, he licks his lips.  "I'll help you.  Show you how to set yourself up somewhere safe, get by without a Circle or Templars.  If, if you want."

     Cullen blinks at him, and then smiles bleakly.  "So I am to end up alone whether I wish it or not."

     " _Free_ ," Carver says, emphatically.  "Not _alone_."  He swallows, afraid.  Wanting.  "Not un-unless you want to be."

     Cullen's smile shifts, from bleak to relieved.  "No," he says softly.  "I don't want to be alone."

     Carver swallows, nods, keeping his face serious even though he wants to sodding _dance_.  "Settled, then."  He bites his lip.  There's more that needs to be said, and said explicitly.  No more dancing about the truth.  "You can go anytime you want, though.  Just so that's clear."

     "It is very clear."  Then Cullen gets up and crouches beside him, cupping Carver's cheek with one hand.  "The same applies to you, my Templar.  But I -- "  He hesitates.  "I _hope_... well."

     Carver grabs his hands, pulling Cullen down onto the bedroll, tangling them up and holding him close.  "I'm sodding _yours_ ," he says into Cullen's chest.  "Duty... I'll do my duty by you, and..."  And, fuck.  He can't even pretend anymore.  "I want to _be_ with you, Cull.  Please?  Not just for, for _that_.  I need you."

     He has never felt better than when Cullen's hand cups the back of his head, and Cullen's other arm folds around him, tight.

     "Then _we_ shall serve _each other_ ," Cullen says, his voice as fierce as it is soft.  "That, I swear."

     Then Carver curls up to him, asking without words, and Cullen relaxes and smiles and bends Carver the way Carver wants to be bent, and after that it's duty duty duty for the rest of the long night.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the PWP-ness of this, and the poor quality of it. It's been a rough week and I just really needed to write some stress-relief porn. :) Had to hack Cullen's personality mightily to do it -- Cullen just doesn't easily lend himself to *seductive* behavior -- and I had to keep fighting the urge to make a proper long, plotty 'fic of this to fix all the shortcuts I was taking with the boys' characterizations. As it is I feel like Carver's a little OOC and Cullen's a lot OOC, though part of the latter is just caused by not being in his head.
> 
> Anyway, scratched a psychosocial itch, so it'll do. :)


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